More Than Summer
by KJS
Summary: RENTfic. Years after the play takes place, Mark finds himself trapped between his fears and love, and finding that loneliness isn't such a good thing... (M/R slash) [Complete]
1. Living On the Edge of Forever

morethansummer1 _Hey, everyone. Welcome to my second RENT fic. I really want to thank everyone who responded to me on 'Loved and Lost'. The reviews really meant a lot to me, they practically sent me to the moon. Anyway, this one originally wasn't going to be written. I was working on another RENTfic, and about half way through, my inspiration died. I figured I'd try to focus on another fic, then I could go back and keep working. Well, this one kind of took over for the past few months. I've dabbled in slash quite a bit, but this is the first one I've actually finished. It's that M/R factor taking over my brain. This is also my first attempt at chaptering, mostly as an experiment and so I have some more time to work out the kinks on the ending._

_Any comments or feedback would be appreciated. I'm a little nervous about posting this, and I'm not quite as happy about how it's going so far as I was with 'Loved and Lost'. It should turn out to be five chapters. Not extremely long, but I should be getting the chapters up pretty fast. I want to make this fic work, so any constructive criticism is welcome. If there's anything screwed up or slightly off in my story, I'd like to fix it. Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. I've cerainly had fun with it. :) And thanks go to the Angel Cast for bringing RENT alive for me. Trey Ellet and Dean Balkwill haunt my dreams._

**_WARNING: This story contains a same-sex relationship. While I doubt that any RENT fans really need any sort of special warning, I figured I would anyway. If you don't like the idea of Mark and Roger in a romantic relationship, this ain't the story for you. If you hate sap or DepressedMark, I'd stop now. :)_**

_Disclaimer: RENT and its characters belong to Jonathan Larson. There's no malicious nature behind my writing, I make no profit. RENT's just inspired me, and I needed to share. My eternal praises go to Jonathan Larson._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

**More Than Summer**

Everyone has something in their life that just doesn't feel entirely right. It seems like a part of the human condition. Some people have ethical questions about their jobs, some are uncomfortable with their accomplishments, some uneasy in their circle of friends. For me? It was something pretty simple, something that people can take for granted, yet for me it was like a glimpse into a different world. I couldn't help being uneasy with it, though I'm probably one of the only people who gets twitchy when, for the first time, I truly feel like I belong and feel... loved. 

Love was something I hadn't expected to feel since the naïve days that I spent with Maureen, back when she was my goddess and I was nothing but her servant. Love was alien, love was bizarre. It was something for everyone in the world but me. There were so many times I came close to touching it, only to find that it remained just out of reach. It had been that way most of my life. Since high school, all I could remember was night after night with something missing from my soul, something aching with its solitude. 

Love just wasn't for me. A part of me wondered if I was always going to be alone in my heart. Sure, I had my friends, but that wasn't quite what I craved. 

Then I found it. Three years after Mimi died, the uncomfortable silence between us melted away and Roger began to heal. A part of me began to heal as well, the innocence lost in Maureen. Somewhere in there, shyness gave way, and we've walked our roads together ever since. Maybe we don't have the best relationship, between my workaholic nature and his brooding devotion to his music, but we've found some sort of happiness. It's the kind no one would ever expect, but it's there, mixed in with our own kind of screwed up love. Some days, it seems like we're living in some kind of perfectly sappy fairy tale. Some days, I don't even know who he is. But you roll with the punches, right? 

Yet I've spent most of my life thinking that I would always be alone. When things changed, there was something about it that was distinctly unsettling. 

************************   
**March 14th**   
************************

_So you say_   
_I'm too quiet_   
_Holding things_   
_Up in my head_

_I say so much_   
_But you don't buy it_   
_I don't want to wake up_   
_Alone in my head_

_Oh say that you'll never go now_   
_Don't go_   
_Don't go_

_I need a lot of you_   
_I want a lot of you_   
_I need a lot of you_   
_All of you_   
_~Vertical Horizon "All of You"_

  
  
  


I hate mornings more than anything. People somehow assume that I'm a morning person, and the truth can't be farther from that. I hate the grogginess, the soreness from sleeping in weird positions, acting as a reminder that I'm still alive... "Mrg," I mumbled, rolling over in my bed as the bitter taste in my mouth nearly made me gag. The faint sounds of traffic from outside the window told me that I had already slept a good part of the morning away, but I didn't care. There would always be another time for filmmaking. For this one moment, I wanted to be in bed. Hopefully sleeping. My eyelids refused to open, and after a minute of trying to get up the strength to roll out of bed, it didn't even seem to be worth the effort. 

"Mark, get out of bed. Or else." Roger's decidedly grumpy voice pierced through the sleepy haze over my mind. Roger. I could deal with Roger in the morning. No catastrophes so far. 

"No." Plain, simple, to the point. I didn't have the energy for anything else. 

Of course, that wouldn't work. "Get up." 

I managed to weakly raise an arm, shielding my eyes with it as I blearily peered up at him. Roger was looming over me and I could just make out the fuzzy image of his face, with its dark eyes and soft golden curls. _Sleep. Sleep good. Waking bad_, I thought drowsily. "Make me." 

"You really want me to?" Roger's voice held a slightly amused undertone and a distinct edge that would have made me worried if I was a little more awake. Normally, it was an indication that I was going to find some trouble. 

I rolled over, burying my face in the inviting softness of my much-beloved pillow. "Nraaaugh." 

"Fine," Roger answered, barely containing the faint snicker in his voice. I ignored him, the pleasant weariness once more blanketing my brain. I could have drifted here forever. The bed was so warm, so comfy... 

A spark of awareness leapt into my brain suddenly. Roger's callused hand drifted across my bare foot. His fingers lightly traced along the heel, making me squirm slightly as they brushed along the sole. I bit my lower lip, trying to ignore the laughter threatening to escape. _No, I am not ticklish, I am not ticklish..._ Denial didn't help much. His fingers worked their way up to the more sensitive skin around my ankle. 

"Maaaark," Roger crooned, almost playful. I could have gladly murdered him, if it weren't for the fact that I was too tired and he had the upper hand. Not to mention that he wasn't normally this cheerful, so if he wanted to play, I'd let him. He leaned over me and I drew in a sharp breath as he traced a finger along my cheek, tucking a few strands of hair back behind my ear. There was no way he didn't know I was awake now. I felt him lean closer, his lips barely grazing my ear. "Wakey-wakey," he whispered, his breath gently tickling while simultaneously bringing a slight flush to my cheeks. 

I couldn't hide the faint smile on my lips, and I could practically sense his own. "So, Mark's awake," he murmured, and the amusement in his tone finally registered with me. There was something up, he was planning something. 

And suddenly, I wasn't in bed, but rolling on the floor, letting out a wild yelp that surprised even me. "AUGH!" Cold! So fucking *cold*! In my sleep-muddled brain it took me a moment to process it, but as my eyes snapped open, I found myself staring up at Roger, who was holding an empty pitcher with a few stray ice cubes still at the bottom. I was soaked. Dammit, dammit, dammit. _He couldn't just mope like he usually does, nooooo, he had to wake me up_, I mentally grumbled, wincing as I unbuttoned my pajama top and threw it on the floor. Dammit, *cold*. Dragging a still-dry blanket off my bed, I wrapped it around myself and glared up at Roger. 

Unfortunately, my glare of utter rage and homicidal intent isn't very threatening. Roger just stared evenly back into my gaze, a slight smirk on his expression. I wilted, trying the other method that I've found works with him: sorrow. My face screwed up into a slight pout, and I hung my head with all the sadness I could muster. 

"Sorry Mark," he said softly, meeting my eyes with his amused cerulean gaze. At least there seemed to be a little regret for his prank in there... My frown deepened as I suddenly became conscious of the water dripping down my nose, of the fact that my feet were freezing, and that I was on the floor instead of my nice warm bed. The look got a response out of Roger, if not the kind that I wanted. He began to laugh with his low, warm chuckle. "You just look so... sad. Like a drowned puppy." 

A puppy? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my reflection in the mirror by the door, and couldn't help the tiniest of smiles. I looked pretty stupid, sitting there, my hair up in drenched spikes and a blanket wrapped around me. I whimpered, and Roger patted my head in response. "Okay, good boy. Now, you need to get up." 

Oh yeah. Morning. That part. Once more a little annoyance took over my brain, and I scowled up. "Why the hell were you waking me up early, anyway?" 

"*You* told me to wake you up. Remember? Work, shopping with Collins, yadda yadda..." 

"And you listened to me?" You'd think he'd know better than that. "What are you going to be doing?" My mind was beginning to churn, the creaking cogs coming up with an idea to cast off grocery shopping onto him. 

Roger's gaze abruptly left mine, the gentle smile vanishing into what seemed to be his perpetual look: a pensive, faraway stare. "I have some things to do," he said simply. 

I didn't question it. Long ago I learned about where he'd vanish off to. It was stupid, I know, but about a month after we became more than best friends, I couldn't contain my curiosity about where he would go every month or so. He'd vanish off, and all my pestering couldn't get it out of him. So I followed him. Sometimes he went out of town, just driving and never stopping. Sometimes he would drift by clubs, slowing outside for a moment before continuing on. But he always drove to the cemetery to visit Mimi's grave. She was buried right next to Angel. Someday, I think we were all going to be there. 

I never asked him about it again. 

It's hard to love a guy like that. Sometimes I see a look on his face, and I know he's remembering her. I'll never begrudge him the place in his heart that will always belong to her. I'll never try to take that. But it hurts sometimes, and every now and then when the loft is empty except for my lonesome self, I wonder if I even have a place in his soul. He's not the most affectionate guy, or the most open. Trying to crack his walls only results in more indifference. Still, I think he feels a love for me. While he does have the look for Mimi, I discovered something interesting last month. Rewatching a film I had made during one of Maureen's recent protests (I still don't understand the point of the sheep costume, but that's Maureen...), he turned to me with a quiet, lazy smile that I recognized on him. It was then I realized that it faded the moment he looked away. That smile was mine. That's the way I know he cares. 

"Well, I'll see you later, then..." I shrugged slightly, reaching for the closest sweater after a quick up-and-down glance. It didn't smell that bad, and it didn't have any visible stains. It'd be fine. Roger leaned down, planting a light kiss on my forehead before pulling away. I slipped the sweater over my head, and as I looked around again, he was gone. 

_Me, myself, and I. Welcome back_, I thought, grabbing my camera and aiming it towards the mirror. "Close in on Mark, the infinitely tortured boyfriend," I announced, grinning. I looked like a goof with that stupid smile, I knew it, but Roger did that to me sometimes. "And soon our woeful hero shall have his revenge. But first, shopping." 

I kept up the monologue as I threw on some pants and grabbed a bagel that didn't seem *too* stale. Definitely time to get some groceries. Cradling my camera in my arms, I passed our makeshift table with a cursory glance down, before quickly doing a double take. A yellow post-it note was half hidden under the phone. Curiosity getting the best of me, I picked it up and smiled slightly at Roger's crooked scrawl. It was a few numbers, '11:15', '3/14', and the letters 'DS'. Strangely familiar. 

_11:15, 3/14, DS..._ The numbers swam for a moment in my head, confused, before I finally glanced at the clock. It was 10:50. March 14th. But DS... Let me tell you about the downside to being me. I remember things. I've always had to, between spending my youth trying to balance school and film, and then moving in with Roger and having to be sure that he didn't miss gigs, or dates, or taking his AZT... I remember things very well, and it took only a moment for it to click. 

DS. Doctor Sutter, Roger's doctor. Collins's unorthodox methods of getting cash had given us the luxury of medical help. Fuck. Roger *hates* going to the doctor, and he hates dealing with anything medical. Normally, the routine was me forcibly dragging Roger down to appointments. Never once did he go voluntarily. 

A strange coldness settled over my mind, the familiar numbness that tickled at the back of my mind. Roger was going to the doctor. Okay. That's fine. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all... Fuck, okay, I was worried. God. Roger. Something *had* to be wrong... Closing my eyes, I let the scrap flutter to the ground. It was immaterial. _C'mon, everything's okay. Don't be stupid. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine... You worry too much. Stop it. Now._

The door flew open, sending me reeling in momentary shock and nearly falling into the newly-arrived Collins. If he hadn't caught me, I would have probably ended up with a permanently flattened nose. 

"What's wrong?" He could immediately tell that there was something wrong with me, even if the slight look of panic that was probably crossing my face wasn't enough of a hint. 

Roger was okay. He had to be. I was overreacting completely. Just because he didn't tell me that he was going to the one place he hates... Desperation clouded my gaze as I looked up at him. "N-nothing," I stammered, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palm. "But something came up, I've got somewhere I need to go. You don't mind handling it alone this time, do you?" 

His searching gaze met mine, and it was barely a second before he nodded. "Sure thing. I'll even get those Coco Puffs for you." The man certainly knows my weaknesses, but I was too busy with the fretting in the back of my mind. 

"Thanks," I responded quickly, a certain amount of relief washing over me. First step completed. Now, get to Roger. 

Collins, his lips quirked into a sat sort of smile, patted me on the shoulder. "Just relax and *breathe*, Mark." He turned and headed back down the stairs, his footsteps echoing away on the concrete floors as I was left alone, clutching the doorframe. 

"Breathe, Mark," I ordered myself, and managed to will my heart to slow. I was calm, I was in control. "Now be rational. Roger would have told you if something were seriously wrong. He's probably just going in for a check-up or to get some more of his prescription filled." _Yeah right, like he'd tell me._

The specter was always hanging over me. Angel. Mimi. AIDS has taken down the best of us. Collins seemed like he was going strong, but it was hard to forget that someday he would be gone. But Roger was the one I always tried to forget. Every fucking day I try to forget that he wouldn't be with me forever, even if I had the romantic notions that I want him in my arms for the rest of time. He's Roger. He's my soul. 

I hadn't even noticed that I was already down the stairs and out of the building. My feet seemed to have a mind of their own, so used to guiding me when distracted that they instinctively took off running down the block. The familiar scents of decay and garbage mingling with car exhaust seemed so far off. Everything did. 

One block. Two blocks. My body wasn't made for running, and I slowed down, my breathing labored, but I kept walking. Every now and then, I would walk a little faster. Four blocks. Five. After a mile more, I was practically ready to drop. I *definitely* was more than a little out of shape. 

When you get tired, it's harder to control your mind. Among the exhaustion, thoughts you wanted to ignore pop up. Frustration tends to build. By that point, I was only a few blocks from the small medical offices, and those thoughts that I wanted to ignore crept up, mixed in with frustration. 

_Who the hell does he think he is? He says he *loves* me, yet he won't tell me about the damned visit to his doctor... I'm supposed to know about these things. Of course, it's not like he even talks to me lately, always out with his damned *band* or with his *buddies*. Fuck, he complains about me always being with my camera, but you can't take that guitar away from him for a *second*..._ As my mental rant went on, my steps turned more into stomps, and I could feel my expression turning into more of a glare than anything else. _Any 'Thanks for getting the groceries, Mark?' or 'Let's go get dinner, just you and me, Mark?' Nope, just leaving me alone, because I'm always alone. Mark's used to being alone, Mark must *like* being alone..._

My teeth were nearly jarred out of my skull as I slammed into someone and was smacked back to reality. 

"Mark, honey! Slow down!" Laughing, the goddess Maureen blessed my simple soul with a kiss on the cheek. My teeth were practically cracking as I ground them, yet as I was pulled into a hug, my anger deflated slightly. Maureen's got this aura. Even if she drives you nuts, frustration against the world tends to lose its edge around her. "Where's the fire?" 

"Nowhere," I said, shrugging. "I'm just going somewhere." 

Her cattish eyes met mine, and feline grace seemed to fill her every pore as she brushed a hand along my cheek. I wonder sometimes how she doesn't drive Joanne completely off the edge. "Well," she answered lightly, "you don't seem to be too happy with wherever you're headed. I swear, you look like you're going to rip someone's throat out with your teeth." 

"I might." 

The light-hearted exterior gave way for a moment, her eyes narrowing and giving a glimpse of the shadows behind them. "Mind it being Joanne?" 

The tone in her voice told me that it was the usual situation. "Fighting again?" I couldn't help a slight grin. 

"You could say that," she murmured, a hard edge on her tone. "She wants everything *her* way. I've never met a woman so unwilling to compromise." 

Now I *did* have to try and stifle the laugh. "I see." 

Maureen didn't even seem to hear my response, continuing with a dramatic wave of her hand. "And she never tells me anything! She left on a week for her law conference without even telling me! Just a note on the table, 'see you in a week, love'. A week?! Really! And she'll just come in and never tell me anything! Not even listen to me when *I* try to talk!" 

_Sounds familiar, doesn't it?_ I wish I could kill my mental voices. Preferably with something sharp. 

"I just want to up and leave her. There's other women. I don't need her, do I?" That was when she turned on the old Maureen charm, looking at me with moonlike eyes that were practically glinting with innocence and pleading. 

I kept in the sigh that I wanted to exhale, instead giving in with a docile nod. It's the Mark thing to do, after all. You can't win against Maureen. Besides, even though Roger's stolen my heart, Maureen's still got a little power over me. "You could have half the men in the clubs at your feet, Maureen. And the women." 

My half-hearted reassurance still seemed to satisfy her. "Well," she said with a pained sigh, "I do love Joanne, even if I'm going to scream the next time I hear 'let's just go to bed' when I try to start a decent conversation. I think the love's left our relationship. But I'll stay with her... I do wish it would work..." Her eyes took on a faraway look, and felt the slightest pang in my chest. I used get that feeling a lot and wish that she had even once gotten a look like that thinking about me. Over time it had faded, as Roger captured my being. As his image invaded my mind, I realized that I felt like I was truly over Maureen. 

_Wistful thinking._ I grinned slightly, the half-hearted attempt slipping as my thoughts once more took on a slow pulse. Roger. Roger. "I really have to go," I took a slow step back, my heel scraping the sidewalk. 

"Aww...." She looked about to pout, when suddenly her head tilted, turning slightly as she gazed at the street. "Hey, isn't that Roger?" 

She was right. The beat-up, run down station wagon that we called our own was stopped at an intersection. Roger was leaning back, a cigarette dangling from his lips. _He promised that he'd quit,_ I thought, a little miffed. Belatedly remembering my purpose, I stood still, my fingers digging into my camera case. Without thinking, I drew it out and managed to shoot the back of the station wagon, disappearing around a corner. The loft wasn't even in that direction. _The cemetery. Duh._

"You okay?" I felt Maureen's hand on my shoulder, and brushed it off without a thought. 

I did manage a slight nod. "Yeah, fine..." 

"Well, want a ride to wherever you're going?" Like a magician, she held her hand up in the air, dangling a ring of keys from her fingers. 

I looked at her strangely, my eyebrow raising as I swung my camera over and aimed it at the gleaming keys. It was sort of an interesting shot. "Where'd you get those?" 

"Joanne's out of town. Why does she care if I borrow her car?" Maureen was definitely smirking now, and I zoomed in on her gleaming eyes. 

I whistled, letting the camera drop. "Braver than I. Man, if she finds out..." 

"I can handle Joanne." I finally noticed the familiar dark blue Camry parked next to the curb, glittering under the sun. Following Maureen, I got into the car and winced as she turned on the radio, blasting some sort of esoteric, local rock music as loudly as possible. 

"Can you drop me off at the cemetery?" I yelled, jamming my fingers into my ears and letting my camera drop to my lap. 

She looked at me for a moment, smiling that devilish grin, before taking off with a wild screech of tires. "Anything for you!" 

We arrived faster than I ever had before. I'm not quite sure how I managed to not fly through the windshield, but I did proudly survive. I even managed to pick up my camera halfway through and get some amazing shots. It's got the potential to be a great chase scene. Maybe some sort of interpretation as the hard push and fast pace of city life, which seeks to crush artists... 

God, I practically sounding like Maureen. 

Even when the city's baking in the sun, the cemetery always seems to have a chilly wind lightly caressing it. There's a perpetual cloudiness over it, which is probably appropriate. With a brief smile to Maureen, I unbuckled myself from the death trap of a Toyota and almost fell out onto the ground. As she pulled away, I turned to face the dark and dismal sight. Rows of headstones were lined up neatly, like teeth ready to dig in. The grass even seemed sad, small patches gone and baring the hard soil below. I don't like cemeteries. It's why I only go near them when I have a purpose. 

Striding down past the aging, cracking stones, I headed for the familiar section. It was marked by a few saplings, which stood strongly, despite the wind. A crowd of mourners, dressed in black and with heads bent in sorrow, obstructed my view. Nodding to them as I passed, I continued silently on my way, the only sounds being the step of my shoes and the occasional sob from the mourners. 

They were small headstones. Benny wasn't going to pay for much, but it was nice all the same. Two, nearly identical, despite the years between the deaths. I knew what sight I would see, even the way his blonde head would be bent just enough that I wouldn't see his face on approach. 

He was there, standing the same way I had seen him in before. It was the same pose that he had the day that we laid her into the ground. I paused for a moment, not entirely willing to go on. Did I want to bring such stupid paranoia up in a place like this? Angel hated fighting, and Mimi was in love with him... I didn't want to bring this up here. I didn't. 

No matter what I wanted, my feet had other ideas. They drew me forward, step by step. At least my hands obeyed, and my arm hung limp, my camera carefully nestled into my side. 

"Roger." 

He turned to me, barely offering a glance before looking back at the pair of headstones. I knew it was Mimi's grave that he was focused on, though. My eyes gazed past him, tracing over the familiar letters and winding roses that were engraved into it. Unwillingly, my stare strayed to the empty area beside it. We were on the outskirts, and someday, the rest of us wanted to be laid here, too. I don't know if Benny would pay for all of us, but I'd sell everything to ensure we'd always be together. 

_Roger will be beside her_, I thought, before willing away the horrifying image that came to my mind, of a lonely stone with his name on it. _Fuck! *No*, Mark. No._ That was the last thought I wanted right now. It was the one I never wanted to have again. Still, it crept up on me, a nagging voice in the back of my head. _He'll leave you someday, Mark. You'll come here and weep for him, won't you?_

"Roger," I repeated, trying to block out my mind. 

"You knew I was here." There was no emotion in his voice. No anger, no regret, no love, not even the mildest hint of interest. _Damn him! Fuck, is he even alive?_ It was driving me nuts. I wanted to scream, to smack over the head with my camera, to try and get *some* reaction. 

"Yeah. I saw you headed this way." I hesitated, knowing that I had to say it. It may not have been the time, but there was no better. "I also saw the note. You went to see the doctor?" I tried to keep my voice causal, but there was a faint stress to it that I knew he would pick up on. 

"Uh-huh." No reaction again. Dammit, I wanted to throttle him. 

As some sort of unconscious mechanism, my finger began to rub my camera, and I ached to turn it on. I could film him, then maybe it wouldn't be so real, so aching. But I tried again. "Any reason?" My 'not concerned' grin felt more like a pained grimace. 

He glanced back at me, his eyes clearly conveying a mixture of irritation and pain. It was a clear message of 'back up, Mark'. And there was no way in hell I was going to let this go. Not with him. 

"I mean, you don't normally go to the doctor. And when you do, you tell me. Right?" The cheerful note in my voice dropped, and to my embarrassment, my voice practically cracked on the last word. 

A moment's silence by Roger was followed by a heavy sigh. "Look, I had my reasons." 

_Reasons. Ha._ The courage that welled up at that moment was fueled by frustration. "Look, you can tell me anything, Roger," I said quietly. "I love you, okay? You mean a lot to me. I hate you hiding stuff like this, so quit fucking with me." 

Another sigh, and his head drooped farther. "They wanted to talk to me. I also had some more tests that needed to be done." 

"Tests?" My breath caught in my throat. Tests were never a good thing. 

His lips quirked in that purely Roger smile, a sorrow flickering in his pale eyes that made me want to cover my ears. _I changed my mind, I don't want to hear this..._ "Tests," he affirmed, nodding slowly. "Remember when I was sick last year?" 

"Yeah." He had a hacking cough that lasted for weeks. For awhile, his fever was so high that I thought he was truly going to leave me. But he recovered, he's Roger. He's supposed to be invincible. 

"Well, it was worse than you guys were told. It wore down my immune system pretty bad. It didn't help anything." The somber grin fell away, revealing Roger in a state I'd seen maybe once or twice before: the walls down, the guard set aside. "Seems the estimates say that I've got a few less years than I thought." 

I didn't know how I was going to talk. "How long?" I croaked. 

He shrugged again. "Not sure. I'm not doing too bad, I'm sticking with whatever shit they tell me to take to help... They're thinking another three years, maybe four, with how my levels have been." My stomach lurched. I always thought he was hiding how bad things were, I'd always suspected. 

"But... Roger, you're strong. You'll live longer than that, I mean, look at Collins. He's still healthy as ever. And Gordon, the guy down the street. You're... You're not going to die. You're not." My words became slightly strained as I clutched my camera to my chest, shaking my head. If I denied it enough, even God would have to believe that Roger couldn't be taken from me. 

"Don't be stupid, Mark." Maybe it came out harsher than he intended, but he practically growled it at me. My heart sunk as I turned away. 

My gaze lingered up on the sky, the hints of blue being hidden away by the darkening clouds. Rain soon. "Yeah, stupid," I muttered bitterly. "I'm just a fucking joke to you, aren't I?" 

He softened for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me. "You're not a joke to me. Never. But you can't kid yourself." 

"Yeah, sure." 

"Look," he murmured, his hand gently brushed my shoulder, his finger trailing up to my neck. I twitched slightly. Damn him, he knew all my sensitive spots. "Let's just go, okay?" I could hear the sadness in his voice, and all I wanted to do was to reach out and hug him. I wanted to tell him that I'd always be with him, that he was my anchor to everything and anything. 

But I didn't. As the rain began to pour, I quickly stepped forward, letting his hand fall from my shoulder as we made our way to his car in silence. 

(End Chapter 1)   



	2. These Voices In My Head

morethansummer2 _Hey, welcome to chapter 2! Well, aside from suffering from excessive verbosity, I'm somewhat happy with how this chapter's turned out, 'cept its ending. Might fix that if I ever find how. I had fun when I wrote it, at least, and that's what counts, right? Shorter than last time, but that's how it rolls. Big snugs and smooches to all of you who have reviewed this so far, I'm totally blasted by the reaction... I'm a bit more nervous now, since Mark's gonna get whinier by the end. Sorry. :) Erm... Hope you like it. All feedback, positive and constructive, is edible and welcomed._   


**More Than Summer**

************************   
**April 26th**   
************************

_I'm looking for a way to feel you hold me_   
_To feel your heart beat just one more time_   
_I'm reaching back, trying to touch the moment_   
_Each precious minute that you were mine_   
_How do you prepare, when you love someone this way,_   
_To let them go a little more each day?_

_The stars we put in place_   
_The dreams we didn't waste_   
_The sorrows we embraced_   
_The world belonged to you and me_   
_The oceans that we crossed_   
_The innocence we've lost_   
_The hurting at the end_   
_I go there again,_   
_´Cause it was beautiful._   
_It was beautiful._   
_~Jennifer Paige, "Beautiful"_

  
  
  
  
  


It was after midnight. _What time did he say he was going to be home? Ten? Eleven? _I don't know why I bothered to remember things like that. Roger's perception of time never quite reached reality. I had accepted that awhile ago, but it still grated at my nerves on nights like this. My camera remained steady, its focus squarely set on the small, beat-up digital clock. It had been set that way for the past half-hour, and would stay that way as a record of the time until he got home. 

I always wondered if I could pass off a movie of just a clock ticking away as an artsy film, maybe with a little narrative going on in the background. If Maureen's protests count as art, I bet I could make money with something like that. 

It was 1:16 when I heard the handle jiggle and the familiar click of a key. I swung the camera towards the door, expectantly waiting. In the dim light, I could see him. His blonde curls were mused, sticking up slightly, while his countenance seemed to be consumed by a tired frown. His guitar case dipped down, practically scraping the floor. 

"Hey Mark," he said, weariness in his voice. 

"Roger," I acknowledged, zooming back slightly. He seemed so small through my camera. His tired smile seemed so... distant. Abstract. "Out late again?" 

He nodded slightly, dropping his guitar case gently on to the ground next to the door, giving it an absent caress. "Yeah, late rehearsal. You waited up?" 

"Sorta." I peeked over my camera for a moment, taking in his ruffled appearance. "You should slow down a little Rog, sheesh. This is two weeks straight of 'late rehearsals'. You need more rest." There were dark circles under his eyes, and a constant exhaustion in his eyes that scared me. He pushed too much, for his music, for his own goals, whatever those elusive things were. 

"Nah, I can always sleep in late," he waved off my comment, heading over to the semi-barren cupboards and extracting a mildly dented box of Captain Crunch, reaching in and popping a handful in his mouth. 

I shook my head, leaning back against the table. "But you *don't*." What the fuck was he thinking, running around at all times of night, every night? Hell, I practically had to force him to take his AZT nowadays. _Maybe I should just strap him to the bed. Not to mention the other possibilities with that... _The thought slipped into my head, earning a bitter smile. Almost amusement._ Possibilities._

"Well, I'm busy. Things to do... Y'know, we're on the verge of a record deal soon, I swear." He grinned that lazy grin at me and my fingers immediately tightened around my camera. The record deal. He always thought they were close, always went for it and drove himself to it. Watching him made me so damn tired, tired of it all. 

And of course he was busy. He always was busy. "Yeah," I muttered under my breath. "Things to do. Not things like *talking* to me nowadays..." I'd spent days trying to talk to him, trying to get him to *respond* to me at all, but it was like talking to a wall. A stupid, guitar-playing wall. He'd smile, he'd laugh, then he'd walk out the door to rehearsal. Or to go hang out with Collins. Or to go do some session work. Anything but stay here. Anything but talk to Mark. Sometimes I wondered if it were something I did, or if it was just the way we were. 

Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that he's got sharp ears. "What do you mean by *that*?" He stared at me, his eyes meeting mine with their same old fire. It was the fire I'd fallen for, and for a moment I was tempted to forget it all. But I was tired of always forgetting things, of always being good ol' Mark and letting things be. 

"It's just that you're always running around. Always out with someone... I mean," I took a breath, counting iny my head. Shit. I didn't mean to actually *say* anything. Great. But I had started the damn rant, I had to finish it, didn't I? "I never see you any more. You're not even here half the time. We used to just go to the Life Cafe, or just go driving. Or sit here." Those were nice times, the lazy days and nights where it would be me and him, no filming or music on our minds. I miss those days. 

I shook my head with a strange sense of regret, my mind not quite done spilling itself. "But I haven't seen you in so long, and you don't even seem here when you *are* around." My voice quavered slightly as I closed my eyes and took another breath. Time for focusing. "Fuck, Rog. I miss you. I tried to tell you two days ago about the last scenes I was doing for my film and how I was so *close* to being done. But you just walked out the door, told me we'd talk later." 

"And I asked you about it when I got home. You just kept mumbling and scrawling something down in that scene notebook of yours. Hell, I even remember what it was about. You wanted to film in Central Park. Something about a statue." He raised an eyebrow slightly, his grin long gone from his face as his even gaze met mine. 

Okay, so he could remember a few facts. But I was too frustrated to think about that. All the moments from the past months were surfacing, each one echoing with a new clarity, twisting around to caricatures of love in my head, trembling until the question burst from me before I could stop it. I could feel the anger in my voice, the defiance. It didn't even seem to be my voice anymore. "Do you even care about me anymore?" 

The angry look in his eyes deflated slightly, dimming below a wave of concern. "Of course I do," he said softly. "You mean a lot to me, Mark. You're... just you." His lips took on that curious quirk they sometimes got, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You're mine, and I love you for it, stupid. Don't doubt that." 

There was still that tiredness in his eyes and a few bitter memories refused to let the argument go. _He loves me enough to leave me alone... God, even Maureen was around more. People I love always leave me._ I stared back at him. I wanted to forgive him, I wanted to just curl up against him in bed and cry into his chest and wake up feeling myself again. In the bottom of my chest I could feel that cold, creeping feeling that I knew better than myself. It had been a part of me for years, and like a thorn bush it encircled me, a wild-grown cage. It was painful to escape, but I thought it was gone. Yet here it was again. Loneliness. "Then why can't you just put the guitar down for a minute? Just... slow down?" 

"Why can't you put the camera down and look at me now and then?" His response held the same sharp tone as mine, but after a moment he just reached forward, playfully mussing my hair. "Let's just go to bed." 

_If I ever hear 'let's just got to bed again'..._ The words echoed through my mind, yet I couldn't place them for the life of me. After a moment I nodded, setting my camera down on the table as I smiled a false grin up at him. God, I felt empty. "Yeah, just give me a minute." 

"Sure. I'll be waiting." Planting a gentle kiss on my forehead, he vanished into our gloomy bedroom. Shadows seemed to match both our personalities, so we barely even turned on the light in there, let alone attempt to change the bare decor. 

Just me and my camera. Slipping it back into its worn case, I was about to shuffle into the bedroom when I noticed the blinking of messages on the answering machine. I pressed the button, already having a good prediction of who one of them was. 

And I was right. "Mark?" The voice that raised me since I was yanked from the womb probably annoys me more than any other. "It's your mother, I just wanted to check in and see that you got the socks I sent you... Yadda yadda... Hope you're well... Yadda yadda... How are you and Roger? Oh! He's so adorable, sweetie.... Yadda yadda... Your father's well and... yadda...." My mind has become so highly trained that at this point that all her words meld together into an incomprehensible blur. It's a great ability, I can barely hear her messages after awhile. I love my mom, I really do, but I've never met a woman so able to drag out a message on someone's answering machine. Of course, since I never call, I suppose she has to be used to talking to the answering machine. Maybe I *should* call one of these days. 

Nah. 

The second was from Maureen. "Hey guys," her voice filtered cheerfully into the room, nearly making me wince, "I just wanted to tell you guys that I'm staying with Collins for a few days. No hard guesses why, huh? You're going to help me move in when I get a new place, right? Thanks!" Click. 

It's time for the monthly Joanne and Maureen break-up. Not surprising... It's kind of a pity, I normally like to capture them on film. It's kind of funny how it's the same every time. 

Still, this one did deviate from the schedule. I didn't expect it for another week or two. Maybe it *was* worse this time around. 

I almost regretted having to go back into that bedroom. I knew he was waiting for me, wondering why I was taking so long. Probably staring up at the window or brooding or something, at the same time. He's good at that, my Rog is. I didn't want to go in and look into those eyes, forcing me to accept how things are. I wanted to breathe again. I remembered that only last December, everything seemed perfect. It was just him and me and the rest of the gang, and everything was beautiful and new. 

I wondered what he would do if I didn't go back into the bedroom. I could have slept in a chair or something... I doubted he'd come look for me. He might not even say anything in the morning about it. Could be a fascinating experiment. Still, my body seemed to ache to crawl into bed next to him, to curl up and just sleep with his arm tucked around me. 

Resigned, I turned back to the bedroom, its door open just slightly. It was tempting me. Almost like a call, screaming my name out. 'Come in, Mark', it said to me. 'Don't be stupid and alone. You've got a man that loves you and a nice, warm bed.' 

I definitely wanted that nice, warm bed with its fluffy, warm sheets. Did I want a man that loves me, though? Stupid question. Everyone wants that. No one wants to be alone. I had solitude for so long, why wouldn't I want someone to be there for me? 

Slipping through the door, I stepped carefully across the floor, trying to avoid the squeakiest floorboards. I could hear him breathing, and the slight rustle as he shifted in the bed. I tugged my shirt over my head, letting it drop to the floor before doing the same to my pants. I took a little more care putting my glasses on the nightstand. I've had one too many mornings of waking up and accidentally stepping on them. 

I slid into bed next to him. Roger was already hogged most of the sheets, but with a good-natured yank I managed to claim some for my own. His arm touched mine, testing almost, before draping itself over my chest. He'd definitely been to practice: he smelled like cigarettes and coffee, along with the familiar musk of sweat and pure Rogerness. I leaned back into his chest, facing away from him and just listening to the heaviness of his breath. I could feel the faint beating of his heart. 

"Are you happy, Rog?" I lightly slid my fingers across his arm, before tracing small circles on his knuckles. 

"Of course," he answered sleepily, his words slightly slurred. "You make me happy. You're special." Those words were practically sappy professions of love from my songwriter. When he had a melody for it, he would write me lyrics that swelled with more romance than he'd ever say directly. When it came to pure words, he kept it simple. 

Something remained uncertain at the back of my mind, nagging at me quietly._ Am I happy with you?_ His breathing slowed, and soon I could tell that he was fast asleep. I was left alone with my thoughts, and sleep was a long time in coming. 

(End Chapter 2)   
  
  
  



	3. Things You Never Had

morethansummer3 _Hey everyone, welcome to chapter 3. Sorry it's taken me a bit, but the other day I decided I wanted to try and make a homepage, so I've been a bit... distracted. Did I mention websites are evil? I'm never gonna get that sucker done... Anyway, this chapter's a bit short, starts a bit jerky, but I had a fun time with the ending. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all the feedback so far, y'all deserve some major snugs. :) Two more parts to go in this short romp. ~KJS_   
  
  


**More Than Summer**   


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**July 28th**   
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_And he thought he heard the echo of a penny whistle band_   
_And the laughter from a distant caravan_   
_And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand_   
_Fading through the door into summer_   
_~The Monkees, "The Door Into Summer"_   


_The city is crowded, my friends are away and I'm on my own_   
_It's too hot to handle so I gotta get up and go_   
_It's a cruel, cruel summer (leaving me)_   
_Leaving me here on my own_   
_It's a cruel, (it's a cruel) cruel summer_   
_Now you're gone_   
_You're not the only one_   
_Now don't you leave me_   
_Now don't you leave me_   
_Well, don't you leave me_   
_~Ace of Base, "Cruel Summer"_

  
  
  
  


The past three hours had been excruciating. The sound hadn't let up for a single second, and I was too damned lazy to do anything about it. I though that I could put up with it, that I could ignore it, but as the minutes ticked by, it was getting harder and harder. The lazy afternoon had taken its toll on me, making me lethargic enough that rolling over seemed difficult. I had wondered if a position change were possible, even if I tried. I was probably stuck to the sheets with sweat at this point. 

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. I hate flies. This one, especially. Three hours of the stupid thing. I don't think there's anything quite so annoying. With a feeble effort, I managed to grab the glass of water on the nightstand. Dipping my fingers into its cool contents, I ran my fingertips down the bridge of my nose, enjoying the feeling of the coldness sliding down my face. Bzzz. Dammit, the flies were still there. _Maybe if I concentrate, they'll spontaneously combust..._ A few minutes of trying, my eyes squinched shut, proved *that* wouldn't work. 

"Hey." The door creaked open, and I heard the flies' buzzing grow more distant as the exited the room. I cracked open an eye to see Roger staring at me, his hair plastered to his head with sweat. While I at least vaguely liked the summer, Roger detested everything about it. Especially the heat. "Have you seen my guitar pick?" His voice held a faint edge of irritation that seemed to last as long as the season. 

"No." I closed my eyes again, and listened for the click as the door shut once more. 

_That went well. _For the past few months, any sort of civilized conversations had been scarce. I saw Roger less and less, and every time we talked, an argument seemed to erupt. It was always over the stupidest things: going out to film Maureen's protests, who ate the last of the cereal, when Roger had last taken his AZT. It was all so stupid. So pointless. 

There were a few times that we managed to recapture everything, though. A few weeks ago we went and sat up on the roof of the building, sneaking up and laughing like stupid kids as we curled up under the night sky. It's far too bright in the city to see any stars, but Roger kept pretending he could. We just sat for hours, laughing and talking. 

The next day, the first thing we did was glare at each other and get into a fight over who was supposed to go grab some groceries. It had been a nice night while it lasted. My major regret is that we had silently agreed to put our respective obsessions behind us on that night... It would have been nice to have had a recording of him like that, of us like that. 

My hand strayed to my camera, which was resting right next to my water. It was always loyal, always my friend. It would never turn on me or push me down. Even though its casing was practically melting in the heat... 

A yell once more interrupted the quiet. "Are you *sure* you haven't seen it?" 

"I'm *positive*!" I shouted back, my lip curling slightly. Didn't I just say I hadn't? Sheesh. 

"I had it with my guitar yesterday... It was here..." I could hear him grumbling. 

After a few loud clangs and a pained yelp filtered in from the other room, I let out a groan. "You probably left it at rehearsal!" 

I was greeted with a grunt, and the door swung open to once more reveal my grumpy boyfriend. Even more cross than before, he wiped away the sweat that was trickling down his forehead. "I *remember* bringing it back with me," he insisted, his eyes meeting mine. 

The sad, tired look held within was begging for some compassion or sympathetic touch, and I really wasn't up to giving it. "You don't need to tear apart the loft." 

"Well, sorry, but I *need* to find it," he growled, every inflection showing that he was anything but sorry. 

"Look," I snapped, as he began to dig through our small dresser, "it's got to be somewhere, but I sure as hell don't remember you bringing it in here. Can't you get another one?" 

His neck stiffened, and I could see the pure irritation in his eyes as they gouged into me. "I've had that pick for years," he said quietly. "It's good luck. I want it. Now." 

Roger can be such a brat. 'I want my pick now', 'I don't care, Mark', 'Neeh neeh neeh'. He could drive someone entirely insane. Heck, he'd probably already driven me over the edge, and I just didn't know it. "Can't you take a break from looking? You'll probably find it when you stop looking. Otherwise, you're going to rip this place apart." 

He ignored me. "Not to mention that you sure as hell won't clean it up," I added, just under my breath, but I knew he could hear it. I intended for it to be heard. 

"I'm *so* sorry that I don't go haywire about a few things being left out. Probably because I actually get out of here every now and then." His eyes were smoldering, and there was an almost palpable force in the air between us. It was burning, the searing rage that was waiting to escape. 

My eyebrow raised, and I mustered every bit of contempt that I had in my soul. It was too easy. Everything was just sitting at the surface, where it had been waiting for months upon months. It was like I'd been waiting to snap, given the excuse. "Excuse me? Aren't you the one that spent over seven months locked up in this hole, moping?" 

He responded with a harsh laugh. "And you know something about moping, don't you? At least I had a reason to be miserable, rather than moaning about always being alone. At least I realized there were people around me, instead of pretending they weren't there." 

"Then why the fuck haven't you realized that I'm here, Rog? That I gave a fuck and wanted to help you? Why do you always brush me off, if you've got such great sight?" A part of me almost wanted to cry. What the hell happened to us? 

"I see that you're here, Mark! More than anything, I *always* know that you're here!" Even with all the rage in his eyes, I could still see a flicker of caring for me. A flicker of love. But was it enough? "You're so mad about being supposedly left out that you're always there!" 

"Maybe I like being alone," I growled harshly, the words falling from my lips faster than I could process them. "Maybe it's easier than being with someone. Especially someone like *you*. God," I chuckled slightly, "I don't even know why I'm here still. Taking care of you sure hasn't been paying off lately." _Maybe it's easier than being with someone..._ That's the thought that had been going through my mind for months. Maybe this shitty concept of 'love' wasn't worth the pain. Maybe it would be better just to get out, rather than stay with a guy like Roger. After all, he was inconsiderate, brooding, and prone to taking off. Better to leave him than ever let him leave me. 

His fists were clenched, the knuckles whitening. I wasn't afraid, I knew he wouldn't hit me, no matter how mad he was. He'd tear apart the bed, punch the walls, but he wouldn't hit me. He stomped forward, every step seeming deadly. Roger stopped before me, and I looked up to meet his stare with my own defiance, ready to take whatever he said. 

"You've never wanted to be alone, Mark," he said slowly. Too careful. "You hate it, remember? You're so fucking dependent, you'd never try to be truly alone. You'd always be looking for someone to cling to." 

_I can be truly alone. I *was* truly alone. I could, I could..._ "And you're always looking to run away." 

He winced, and I could tell that I hit some sort of nerve there. Still, only a little joy could be found in that small victory. "That was a long time ago. You're so blind that you don't even see me now, do you?" He was measuring me with his eyes, I could tell. I could feel his warm breath on my face as he leaned in close, so near that our noses were almost touching. "You're still the scared and clinging Mark that you were since I met you." 

What's wrong with a little healthy fear? It's not like anyone I love ever stays... I squashed down the distracting thoughts, drawing back from him and taking in a shaky breath. 

He was just standing there, arms folded over his chest and a smirk on his face. _God, look at him. He's happy that he's making me feel pain. He wants me to hurt, to suffer. He's always wanted that, hasn't he? Little Marky, let's torture him today... Let's rip out his heart and let the wolves have it. I don't have to do this. I don't have to. He thinks I can't be alone. He thinks I can't do anything on my own, that I'm so fucking dependent... I'm not afraid. _A new energy blazed in me, and with all the coolness and calmness that I could collect, I grabbed my sneakers off the floor and jammed them on my feet. Grabbing my camera, I simply looked at him and said the two words I never dreamed I'd ever say. 

"I'm leaving." 

The disbelief on his face was easy to read. He didn't think I would. He thought I was bluffing, that I only meant for now. He thought I'd come back to him, that we'd fall into each other's arms and go on to our normal, chaotic lives. Not this time. 

"Goodbye," I said, with a tone that I thought perfectly conveyed the finality. I was leaving. I didn't want to hear his response, so with a mumble about coming back for my things, I fled out the door and out of the loft, into the hallway. The last thing I saw, as I turned back to slam the door shut, was him. Roger was staring at me, the shock still in his eyes. Something else was there... Defeat? Pain? I didn't give a fuck at this point. I slammed the door, and his visage was gone. 

After I had left the building, a problem immediately presented itself. I had nowhere to go. If Maureen was staying with Collins, there was no way he'd have any room there. Joanne and I have never quite gotten along, for obvious reasons. My choices at the moment were slim, and a sinking feeling began to creep into my stomach. _You're not going back, Mark. You'll find something. Anything. Sleep in the Life Cafe, I don't care..._ The confrontation in the loft had taken control of my brain, and rational thought had no place with me. I wouldn't go back to him. Not this time, not ever. 

At that point, I began to wander aimlessly. No real purpose to it, I was just trying to get out a little of the rage-filled energy that was still hot within me. Within a half an hour, I was basically doing laps around the block. Every now and then, my gaze would stray to my watch. Ten minutes of walking. Twenty. Two hours. With sweat practically blinding me, I fell to the cracked, dirty sidewalk, stretching out on my back in the middle of it. I didn't care. Why should I? An almost giddy laugh seemed ready to bubble out at any second. _I think I've gone insane_, I thought, dazed. 

The minutes ticked away, with people stepping over me or offering strange looks. Once or twice I got a concerned 'Are you alright?', but I would wave the stranger off with a grin and a nod. I was fine. More than fine. Was there any reason in the world for me not to be perfectly wonderful? 

As my back started to cramp, I noticed something that made me get to my feet. Roger's car was gone. Had he left during my walking fit? _Perfect opportunity. Get in, get a bag of stuff, and go._ Determination and denial were my best friends at this point, so with my mind set on escaping my friend and lover, I jogged up the steps back to the loft. I had at least remembered my key, so as the door creaked open, I peeked inside and was greeted with the sight I was hoping for. No Roger. Perfect. 

I darted into our room, grabbing my old duffel bag and tossing it onto the bed. "Just a few night's worth of clothes, Marky," I muttered, reaching for the dresser. I paused. Hastily taped to the top drawer was a note, written out in Roger's distinct scrawl. 

**'Went to stay with one of the guys. Will be back for the rest of my stuff. Hate Benny, you take the fucking loft and deal with him.'** No signature was needed, just a brusque note. 

Flopping back on my bed, I knocked the duffel onto the floor with my toe, a tiny 'clink' getting my attention. Curiously, I peered over the edge of mattress, staring into the abyss that was our floor. A brief glint in the corner of the room got my attention, and as I drew closer, I recognized it: Roger's guitar pick. I picked it up, running my thumb across the cool metal, letting it sit in my hand. His fucking pick. With a momentary surge of rage, I turned and yanked open the window, ignoring its protesting creak, and threw the pick as hard as I could into the street. 

I ignored the sadness screaming in my heart, the part of my brain that was quaking and sobbing. I let every bit of rage and independence that had been lying dormant within my heart rise up and create confidence in my decision, welcoming every dark emotion since the day I was born. As my eyes darted around the room, realizing the absence of many of Roger's things, the gnawing in my heart grew and I recognized a familiar feeling. 

I was alone, and I didn't know whether I felt terrified, or like I was returning home again.   


(End Chapter 3)   
  
  



	4. When There is Darkness

morethansummer4 _Hey all. Once again, sorry 'bout the time this has taken... My short little romp of a story has taken way too long to get out. Almost over now. And this is my favorite chapter of it all. Too much fun to write. Hope you like it. And BTW, guess who's seeing RENT tomorrow? ;) I haven't seen it since the Angel Cast was in San Francisco. So hopefully it'll inspire me to a RENT-plane for writing._   


**More Than Summer**   


************************   
**September 21st**   
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_I don't believe in love_   
_I never have, I never will_   
_I don't believe in love_   
_It's never worth the pain that you feel_   
_~Queensrÿche, "I Don't Believe In Love"_   


_When will we meet again?_   
_It's been such a long time_   
_When will I see you, my friend?_   
_And will I still know you?_   
_Will you still know me?_   
_Look around_

_Last time you saw me_   
_There was an argument_   
_I said some things on that day_   
_I can't forget_

_Are you seeing someone new?_   
_I look around_   
_So often I think of you_   
_I look around_   
_Look around_   
_~Anthony Rapp, "Look Around"_

  
  
  
  


Silence has a sound. It can be subtle and easily overlooked, but it definitely has a sound. It's in the dull roar of your thoughts when there's simply nothing around you, the way a person's breath can sound like a scream when there is nothing else. The quiet thrum that seems to edge up on your ears, and the low buzzing that takes over as your brain craves something, anything, to bring back sound and motion and life. 

That sound had become my companion after being left alone in the loft. Some nights I thought that I had completely lost it, that it had begun to talk to me. God, I didn't even have an inanimate object as my friend like any normal hermit, I had *silence*. 

The silence of the loft had scared me at first. The morning after I walked out was the first time I noticed it. My eyes snapped open, the sleepiness not letting me remember what had happened. All I knew was that I was cold and in a distinctly empty bed. As the memories of the night before returned, clutching at my throat, I could hear it. My breath. The sounds of the street. The creak of the floor as my feet touched its surface. All of it, wound up in a painful silence. I wanted to take off running for a crazy moment, take off and never return to the tomblike loft. 

It got easier, after that. Once I filled my mind with thoughts, thinking about breakfast, about the day, I could bear it. After I had some cereal in my stomach and an agenda for my day, the loneliess seemed a little brighter, even. And once I walked out of the apartment, dressed and with my camera in hand, I knew I could take being alone. 

Besides, I could have done something about the loneliness if I wanted to. Hell, people had been trying to drag me out of the loft for weeks. Collins called nearly every day. He was on the road, heading to New Hampshire to do a few guest lectures at some smaller colleges. Maureen and Joanne, normally in their own little world of arguing and make-up sex, seemed to be almost stalking me. Every time I left for groceries or the laundromat, I'd return to find the answering machine blinking. I practically felt psychic, I could always tell it would be them. But I didn't care. I didn't want to do anything about my solitude. 

Fuck, I was almost reveling it. I remember in high school, I rarely paid attention during english class. Even so, there was one semester that began with studying stories by Kafka. The teacher was a nut about it, and there was a quote of his I always remembered: "I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy." That seemed to fit me perfectly. I was lonely, I was wallowing in a faint sense of misery, but I knew myself again. I wasn't clouded by worry over Roger, or petty things. My work and myself were my world, and that was what mattered, right? 

Whenever those stray thoughts would come to my mind, of warm arms around me and a sad smile, I would just repeat that quote in my head, over and over. It became a mantra, a life vessel for me. Alone and proud, I proclaimed myself. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone. 

When you're me, you've got a lot of practice in self-denial. 

"Yeouch!" I stuck my finger in my mouth, mentally bemoaning the weather. It'd been pretty chilly for September, and without the heat working, my fingers were stiff and clumsy. Not the best thing for what I was doing. A small spring had popped out on my camera, and armed with tweezers, I'd spent the last ten minutes trying to get it back into place. Just when I almost had it, my finger had shifted and pricked itself. _Fuckin' machine... I thought you were my friend._

My mourning of the camera's betrayal couldn't last that long. Just as I was ready to throw it against the wall with pure frustration, a loud knock on the door stopped me. Damn. I knew it had to be someone ready to meddle. 

Trudging towards the door, the last thing I wanted was an interruption. I turned the doorknob and peeked out through the smallest possible opening I could make between the door and the frame, immediately cursing under my breath. Maureen and Joanne. 

"Maaark!" Maureen's shrill call made me consider shutting the door on them for a brief second, but my fingers twisted the knob and let them in before my mind could come up with a better idea. 

It was like having a whirlwind enter. Maureen's energy seemed to surround her as she proudly strolled into the loft, Joanne at her heels. "We just wanted to see how you were. Since, y'know, you haven't been returning *any* of our calls..." I could feel Maureen's gaze burning into me, branding me as a coward, a hermit. I turned away, finding interesting patterns in the cracks in the ceiling. 

"I just didn't get around to it. Busy doing stuff. Y'know." 

"Sure," Joanne said, her voice seeming to contain a hint of compassion that was lacking with her lover. "But you've got to get out of this hellhole every now and then, Mark." 

Hellhole? "I'm quite happy here, thanks," I muttered. 

"Come *on*. Let's go out, have some fun... Maybe find you some company. You can't remain dreary all the time." Maureen's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as she stalked towards me like a lion after a hapless gazelle. 

My shields went up immediately, a slight grimace involuntarily appearing on my face. "I don't want to be set up. Got it? Don't even try that one." I knew she would attempt it, would try to trick me into it. I wouldn't fall for it. I couldn't. 

Her expression screwed into a small pout, lower lip protruding as she folded her arms neatly over her chest. "Fine. Be miserable. See if I give a fuck about you." 

"You don't have to date, Mark. Just get out of this place for a little while." Joanne's voice was one of well-balanced reason, trying to tempt me out of my fortress of safety. She reached out, placing a light hand on my arm. I flinched. "Let's go out to get something to eat, or go to a movie. Maybe go to a club...?" She trailed off, nearly tangible promises hanging in the air. 

"A club might be nice..." I couldn't help myself, the words escaped before I could stop them. 

Maureen decided it would be fun to violate my personal space, grabbing my arms and swinging me around like a rag doll, knowing I wouldn't throw her off. "C'mon! We can go dancing, just the three of us. Catch some music, have some drinks. It'll be fun." 

_Music...?_ My mind drifted, sharpened with experience to sensing when these two were planning treachery. Roger's band played clubs on Fridays and Saturdays, almost every week. Trap. I could practically smell it. They'd already tried hinting, bribing, and trickery to try and get me to talk to him, or at least admit to them about the cause of our separation. It had to be a trap if they came all the way over here. "And what club were you thinking of?" I struggled to keep the suspicion and irritation from mingling in my voice. 

Maureen and Joanne exchanged a quick look, and the latter shrugged. "I don't know, around somewhere." 

"Nice try," I said dryly, shifting my camera from hand to hand. "You were planning something, weren't you?" 

Maureen's expression lost all hint of its bright smile, replaced by a rather insulted scowl. "Come on, Mark. You need to go talk to him and sort out your little catfight. You're miserable, I'll bet he's miserable, and you're both stupid. Get over it." 

"Look. I'll go out to dinner, to a movie, to miniature golf if you want, just drop it. Okay?" I glowered at Maureen, trying to convey that I was serious. It was a futile manuver, but I could still hope. 

Joanne cleared her throat, reaching out and pulling Maureen back by the arm. The thankfulness in my mind was cut off as she fixed me with a sharp look. "Mark," she said calmly, trying to pull me onto her side. Still dangerous. Razor blades danced on her words. "You won't even tell us what made you and Roger split. We're going to keep trying until you tell us *why* you don't want us to help you." 

Help? I couldn't understand how they saw it as help. Pestering me, trying to invade my privacy... I met her gaze straight on, and a bit of frustration welled up inside me. I wanted nothing more than to snap at them. Man, I longed for the days when I would be looking at their backs as they walked away from me... "You two seem to be experienced in breaking up. You figure it out." 

"Marky, c'mon. I know Roger has a bit of a temper, but you're... you. He couldn't have made you *that* mad, that you'd stay away from him for so long," Maureen pressed. 

"Maybe I heard him say that we should just go to bed one too many times," I muttered under my breath, my fingers twisting and interlacing. 

Maureen's puzzled gaze burned into me, and I could tell she was about to ask about my comment, so I tossed something else out. "I just wasn't happy anymore. Okay? That's it, goodbye." 

"That's silly. You always smiled around Roger, and you even made him smile every now and then. You two were practically *sappy* sometimes," Maureen countered, eyeing me with those gleaming eyes. "You were the only person that could get through to him after Mimi... y'know. And don't tell me you didn't practically slobber over him." 

A harsh laugh grated my throat, echoing out and through the years. Happy? God, how I was happy at first... After a few rocky months, our early relationship settled into a continuous bliss. A shadowed bliss, but something wonderful all the same. _Where has she been for the past few months?_ Everything had changed. Even I knew it. Everything but us. "Look," I said, turning away to stare down at the table, looking at the chinks and scratches accumulated over the years. "I wasn't happy. Things changed. Some things can't be fixed. We were fighting too much, and he didn't seem to want me around anymore. So we ended it. Relationships change." 

"Yes, but you two seemed to be changing with it. Roger's a lot different than he was a few years ago. A little more relaxed," Maureen mused aloud, barely seeming to notice I was there anymore. "Though still with that depressed edge." 

"He's still an asshole." 

"What did he do to you, Mark?" Joanne pressed the question once more, her tones soft and low. 

"He's still the same closed-off guy." I ignored the question, closing my eyes as I ran a hand through my hair, ready to rip it out. _Don't think, Mark. Don't think. She'll get you._ God, loneliness had taken its toll. All the emotions that I'd been used to hiding around the guys were near to the surface with my lack of recent practice at masking. I'd let myself grow too lazy. She could trap me. 

"He was more outgoing than ever before you two broke up," Joanne insisted. "Finally seemed to be ready to experience fun every once in awhile." 

It was true. His eyes had lightened more, the eternal shroud hanging less closely. But I couldn't let the image get out of my mind, of Roger keeping me down... The one who never cared... "He's still the same." It was my mantra, something to cling to. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself. He'll ignore everything and run off without a care for who he leaves behind. Roger doesn't change that much." 

"He's not the only one who likes to ignore things," Maureen said in a distant tone, seeming to have drifted for a moment into her own little Maureen-world, with those thoughts that seemed to draw her away every now and then. A plan, a protest, whatever she was thinking, I didn't want to have it ever known to me. I ignored her comment. 

Joanne didn't want to be ignored. At times like this, I wondered if our mutual distrust really existed, or if it was just created by my mind. Lord, you'd think that she truly was worried about me. "He cares, Mark. He's always cared. He cared about Mimi, he cares about Collins and the rest of us, he cares about his music." 

"Only his music." 

"And," she continued, as if never interrupted, "Roger cares about you. All of us could clearly see it." 

Maureen's low mutter cast itself on to our ears, almost going unheard. "He showed more love than certain people..." 

"*Maureen*, honey," Joanne's dagger stare turned towards her lover, her voice too quiet for comfort. "*Later*. It's Mark's problems we need to deal with." 

Honestly, I'd much rather watch them fight. At least then the mental commentary could block out all else. At least it would distract them. "Look, I don't know what problems you think I have, but I'm fine. Okay? I'm fine. I just decided to get out of a relationship that was on its last legs before he could bail out on me. It was going to end, so it ended. Full stop, end of story, goodbye. Now I'm taking some time to myself. There's *nothing* wrong with me." 

"There's always been something wrong with you, and if there weren't anything *wrong* with you, then you wouldn't be hiding out and moping around the loft. You wouldn't be refusing our calls and you wouldn't have broken up with Roger in the first place. There's something wrong in your head, Mark," Maureen growled, irritation glinting in her eyes. "As I recall, it was *you* that started most of the fights with him. Like that time at the movies, over popcorn? And when we went to the Life Cafe and he was hanging out with his band buddies? Mark, you're screwed up. Completely." 

"So what if I am?!" Words boiled over, scalding my throat as I let out a hoarse laugh, my head falling to rest in my hands. My shoulders shook in the strange laughter, weariness overcoming sense. God, I was tired. I was tired of them, I was tired of hiding, I was tired of this whole fucking topic. "He didn't trust me, didn't tell me things. I needed to leave, Maureen. Don't you get that?" The Queen Maureen, the breaker of hearts, and she didn't understand something so simple. 

"I just don't get it." She shook her head, hair cascading across her face as she seemed more and more like a jungle cat ready to strike. The air in the room seemed ready to choke us all with the anger that had risen, saturating it. "It's you and Roger. You weren't supposed to leave, you were supposed to do the best friends and lovers thing until we were all sick of it. It just... *was* you two. I can't see any stupid shit that would make you need to leave!" 

"You needed to leave me, didn't you? You've left Joanne before. Get it through your head. It happens. I have my reasons." I wasn't afraid to bring up her life, but she didn't seem to appreciate it. Eyes flashing, she bore down on me. 

"Look, this isn't about us. It's about you." Joanne tried to inject a little sanity, but my blood was blazing, and so was Maureen's. I'd never tried to go against her before, and this was a hell of a first time. 

Maureen ignored the rational voice, continuing on with her pricking words. "It's amazing how the roles have reversed." Her tone contained the grandeur normally only seen in her acting performances. She clucked her tongue lightly, giving a look of utter disdian. "I mean," she continued lightly, "Roger was the one who would have left a few years ago, but now it seems the role of Prime Asshole goes to *you*. All praise the king." Sarcasm was practically oozing from her pores. 

"Hate to tell you, but he's still that type, Maureen. Roger doesn't change." My stubborn insistance was like a security blanket. 

Joanne seemed a little intrigued, something flickering in her dark eyes. "He was going to leave you?" 

"Well..." My answer certainly wasn't on my side with facts, but in the heart. I shrugged. "It's Roger. He would, eventually. I know it." That excuse seemed flimsy, even to me, but I put all my conviction into it. My inner voices still haunted me. _Mark doesn't care, Mark's the one to put down, to let roam without a tether to sanity..._

"He wouldn't," Maureen insisted, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched me. "Mark, he wouldn't. Get that stuff out of your head." 

"He would!" I let out a near-shout, cringing back at the volume and harshness of my words. What was I doing? "He would," I said in a lower voice. "He'd leave, they always..." _They always leave_, I was about to say, when I realized how deeply they had cut. They're nearly gotten me. Deadly worrds. "Get out," I ordered quickly, trying to make it sound confident. I had to get them out. "Get out *now*." 

"But Mark, c'mon, we're almost--" I clamped a hand over Maureen's mouth, fighting back the emotions rising to the surface. 

"Get out." 

Joanne's eyes met mine for one brief second, frustration with me residing as the clearest emotion. But I could see the resignation under it. She would leave. 

"C'mon, let's go." 

"But, Pookie..." 

"Maureen, he doesn't want us here. Let's *go*." Sick of me, sick of all of it, I knew I had won the night with Joanne. Not quite the war, but perhaps soon. With a pout, Maureen flounced out after Joanne's retreating form, slamming the door behind her and leaving me alone in the desolation of the loft. 

I glanced down at my camera, my finger still gleaming with a faint bloodstain from the scratch. Picking up my camera, I deposited it in its case before flopping back on the ancient couch, wrapping my arms around myself. 

She seemed so damned sure that Roger wouldn't leave me. Her eyes were practically screaming that I was an idiot. Was I? He and I had experienced so many good times... After Mimi's funeral, I didn't think there'd ever be another good day. He had shut down completely, going through the motions with enough will to remain alive, but no more. Closed off from all of us, and ready to give in to the afterlife. I was so scared he'd try to kill himself that I barely left him alone for months. 

I still don't know what happened, but one day, after a trip to the cemetery, he murmured that he was going to keep going. That she would have wanted it that way, and he would be damned if he was going to fail her again. He reformed the band, and kept going. 

He smiled once, a few months later. My heart fluttered, and I finally found hope that things might be happy again. 

As we grew closer and our relationship melded from friendship to more with a tentative kiss, I had found happiness. The early months, as unsure and moody as Rog could be, were good. The next months, once he came to some sort of peace with being in a relationship with me, were even better. They were good times. 

Would he leave me? He left her. He always ran away from things. But I never thought he'd leave me... 

_Of course he would. You're Mark, never forget that,_ my brain insisted. And he would leave me. Leave me alone in the world. Leave me for Mimi, leave me alone with these prying friends and blinking answering machine messages... 

It was far too empty in the loft. "I need to get out of here." My heart sank even more with the dim echo of the words. The walls seemed to be drawing closer, locking me in. Grabbing my camera and my scarf, I threw the strap of my case over my shoulder, and the worn garment around my neck. The chilly evening would be more welcoming than my solitude. 

Huddling underneath my patched jacket, I wandered down the New York streets, my eyes straining in the darkness that was slowly settling over the city. Leaning against a streetlight, I gazed up at the starless sky for a few moments, until the familiar clank of an approaching bus knocked me out of my miserable musings. 

I didn't have a clear idea where I was going, just that I needed to go somewhere. _A club..._ Maybe they were right. Nothing like the throbbing pulse of music and the hazy mix of alcohol and cigarettes to let a person forget. 

Slipping into a seat in the back, I found myself staring out the scratched, dirt-flecked window. The streets all zoomed by, melding into each other as I watched the buildings fly by. I had a vague destination in mind, a place Maureen had dragged me to once or twice, back when we were dating. It wasn't too crowded, but it served a decent drink and had fairly good music and fairly good company. 

The streetlights spilled their callous glare across the sidewalk, like rising tides creeping up a cement beach. With the exhaust from the retreating bus clogging my throat, I slung my camera case's strap over my shoulder and tromped down the concrete steps into the glowing entrance. The sounds of drinks and laughter made me feel like a moth, drawn to a flame, dragged down to what would probably be my firey death. 

I'm not the most optimistic person about social situations. 

The smell of booze and sweat seemed to hang lightly in the bar, drifting into my senses almost immediately. People moved in and out, weaving complicated patterns as they got through the crowds, heading to the bar, out, or dancing to the rhythms of the music. I passed through the seemingly organic display, hopping clumsily onto a stool at the bar. 

The friendly eyes of the bartender, a little guy who looks more like the wispy shadow of a man than anything, met mine, quiet questions conveyed in their brown depths. I mouthed 'anything', and he gave me a faint smile, deftly reaching for a glass with one hand and a bottle with the other. Sliding a drink in front of me, I knew that it would put me out of my misery. His gaze turned from me, ready to serve other customers as I stared down into the murky amber depths of my drink. 

A few sips seemed to last me half an hour as I nursed my drink, the sounds of a band warming up and the chatter of the masses barely registering. It was just me, myself, and I. My heartbeat felt almost audible as I gulped down the last of the bitter alcohol, pushing the glass forward to find the silent bartender refilling it without a word. Another sip. Another moment. Centuries passed. 

"Haven't seen you around here before." A voice. Something new. At first, I didn't even think it was directed at me, but as curiosity made me glance over my shoulder, I saw a woman staring at me expectantly. She had a beautiful smile. Was it really directed at me? Almost uncomfortable, I fidgeted, my fingers tapping lightly on the counter. 

Her stare made me remember after an awkward second. She had spoken. "I-I don't get around much," I stammered, pressing my hand against the counter in a desperate attempt to keep it from twitching. 

"Really? A pity. This is a great place to unwind. Meet people. Make connections." Her words held the same undertones as Maureen, danger mixed with a smoothness that was difficult to resist. 

"Well... I'm not into unwinding." Or connections. I bit my lower lip, mentally rebuking my stupid answer. 

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Some people aren't," she conceded. After a pause, she held out her hand towards me. It seemed to hang there limply, like a dishrag hanging over a sink. "I'm Trish." 

"Tom," I responded, not quite thinking. _What the hell are you doing, Mark?_ Even my mind didn't appear to have a clue about the words coming out of my mouth. "Tom Collins." _There's a good way to meet people. A pseudonym._

Maybe she would make things easy for me and just go away. 

"Nice to meet you, Tom," she answered demurely, her handshake as weak as the poise of her hand. Too weak. Even Maureen seemed to carry herself with more confidence. And Roger... Another thought I immediately squashed. None of that. I was getting out, having a drink. Meeting people. Being social, all that. 

"Likewise." I turned back to my drink, watching her take the stool next to me out of the corner of my eye. She was here, attractive, and seemed to want me. Why was I resisting? I tried to work up the interest in her, only to find a hollowness inside. There was no desire, no wanting. All I craved was a drink and rest. 

She tried to start a conversation once or twice, but I barely responded to her questions, my mouth fighting any attempts by my mind to engage in any sort of lengthy speaking. I tried, I really did. Whatever had control of my lips, it seemed to be buried within the emptiness within. After awhile, Trish left, and I was once more alone. The quiet bartender drifted like a shadow, keeping my glass filled as my senses became numb. 

Unfortunately, they weren't numb enough. The sounds of a guitar being tuned behind me grew louder, the plucking of a bass and the testing of a drum edging into my mind. I tried to block them out, drown among the sea of people-sounds, only to be drawn back into the tedious tuning of the guitar strings. 

A small squeak of feedback made me cringe, but the tides of people quieted as a haunting voice came over the microphone, one that made me almost spit upon the counter. 

"Glad to see everyone here tonight. We've got a few new songs to test out tonight..." The words blurred into nothingness, the voice, with all its conflicting sorrow and stoicness, confidence and hesitancy, practically a scream into my ears. I was dying beneath it. Roger. Stupid, stupid me. Of course, I had to pick the club that they would have taken me to, anyway. I had to pick the one with him. 

I wanted to kill whatever deity ruled over fate or chance. I really did. Clutching my camera to my chest, I threw a wad of bills on the counter, ignoring the blank stare of the bartender as I stumbled towards the door. People seemed to fall away, the sounds all giving out except for his voice, wordless verses with the sound of his guitar. It radiated into my mind, consumed me. In a moment of weakness, I glanced up from my flight. 

He stood near the edge of the club's makeshift stage, cradling his guitar with a curious caring. His fingers were quick, sliding over the strings. I'd always loved watching his hands, especially when he put those fingers to work on my body. _Stop it. Now. Go. Run._ Fight or flight response had kicked in. 

Such a stupid bit of chance. So stupid. I'd spent months trying to avoid him, every thought of him. I was damned sure I wasn't around when he came back to get the rest of his stuff. I'd locked away everything he gave me and everything that made me think of him, even resorting to getting a new pillowcase. I had done everything I could to forget him. To villify him in my mind. He was the cold former lover and ex-friend who was willing to abandon me. He wanted to rip me to shreds. He never cared. He wasn't worth it. I repeated things to myself, hoping I could make them true. 

It would have been so easy if I could only forget his hands tracing across my arms, my chest. Or how gentle he always was with me. How much he cared. How much history we'd had together, as friends, as more than friends. 

I told myself that I was doing what I needed to do in order to survive. Leave him, don't let him leave you. Hold on to what you can trust, when the only thing you can trust is yourself. 

In my hiding away, I'd almost managed to forget him. I was enraptured in my work, my mind locked in a cycle of thought and creation, cause and effect. It was one stupid moment, one stupid decision to go to that club that destroyed it all. Every moment, of love and hate and arguments and friendship and longing and love and loss, came back to me. Every moment seemed to create a lifetime filled. And it was in that moment of him, holding his guitar on that stage, that I truly felt alone. 

Tears welled up in my eyes, sorrow twisting in my soul. _What have I done?_ Roger was gone. I'd driven him away, I must have. Never tried to stop the arguing, never tried to accept him, never tried to keep it going. Stupid, stubborn, caring, sexy Roger. God. Why me? 

Practically falling out the door, I mumbled an apology to the people I rammed into, barely caring. Barely noticing. I couldn't feel the coldness of the evening air, couldn't hear anything anymore. Fumbling my way up the concrete stairs, I fell to the dirty, pissed-upon ground in the alley next to the club. With mud soaking into my jacket and tears burning in my eyes, I buried my head into my scarf and cried for the first time in months.   


(End Chapter 4)   



	5. There is No Future, There is No Past

Untitled _Wow. It's the end of my story. This is... weird. It's done. I was tempted to write up another chapter or two before this, just to keep it going and fill in between September and December, but then it wouldn't be a short, fun M/R romp anymore. :) Maybe I'll go back someday and add another chapter. Anyway, here it is. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I liked writing it... I've finally decided that I'm damn proud of this story. I really want to thank everyone that reviewed. You guys are just completely awesome. So Kait, Astrid, linnell, Jane, lau, lestater, Athena, Alissa, Tiara Louise Rea, Owl, Penumbri, Jolie, and Liss... Y'all get many hugs and Matt-Caplans-on-keychains. :) Thank you so much. And linnell? I hope you called Chris. Sometimes getting in touch with old friends can be the best thing in the world to do. The lyrics were SO a sign. ;) And Kait... Just wait till you see some of the Not Happy ideas I'm toying with writing. ;) Mwahaha.___

_Anyway, once again, these characters don't belong to me. They're Jonathan Larson's, and I do this only because of my love for then. This one goes out to all the readers, and to the Angel and Benny casts for bringing RENT alive for me. Enjoy. ~KJS_   
  


**More Than Summer**   


************************   
**December 2nd**   
************************

_Well, I'm on a champagne high_   
_Where will I be when I stop wondering why_   
_On a champagne high_   
_I'd toast to the future but that'd be a lie_   
_On a champagne high, high_

_Spring turned to summer_   
_But then winter turned to mean_   
_The distance seemed right_   
_At the time it was best - to leave_   
_And to leave behind_   
_What I once thought was fine_   
_And so real - to me_   
_~Sister Hazel, "Champagne High"_   
  


_I'm up here on my own again_   
_I'm always on my own_   
_They don't know anything at all_   
_They just see what they want_   
_Can't they see I'm not really here_   
_I'm back there with you_

_Flying away_   
_Wish I could say_   
_You will be there tomorrow_   
_And always_   
_Just have to go_   
_Wish I could know_   
_You will always remember me_   
_Now and always_

_Turning my face away again_   
_I'm always turned away_   
_Wanting someone to talk it out_   
_Without you always_   
_~Anthony Rapp, "Always"_

  
  
  


"Two hundred thirty-one, two hundred thirty-two...," I counted under my breath, my fingers massaging my temples as I stared up at the ceiling. Even in the dim light, I could still make out what I was looking for. "Two hundred thirty-three..." I was counting cracks in the ceiling. That was how low I had sunk. 

I suppose I couldn't really be blamed. The need to stay awake overrode any thoughts about what kind of sane person would be counting cracks on the ceiling, or drawing circles over and over, or lining up stolen sugar packets and rearranging them, just to have something to focus on. When I slept, that's when the dreams would come. Daybreak would take memories of them away from me, but there faint impressions would remain. Fear. Accusations. Darkness. A coldness that reached so deep in me that I was drowning under it... No, sleep was something worth avoiding. Which meant lots of fun, quality time to spend with the ceiling. 

"Two hundred thirty-four..." 

I could feel my eyelids growing heavier, sleepiness creeping upon me and getting me drunk with its taste. _Damn. Not now._ I tried to sit up, to get my muscles moving. I could go watch a movie or go running or do *anything* else. Even with my efforts, my body didn't seem to want to respond. Struggling just to sit up, the idea of walking seemed like too much. But what could I do? I couldn't sleep. I wouldn't. 

I wavered. "Two hundred thirty...." Five? Six? Goddamn it, my brain was fried. With a sigh, I let myself flop back onto my mattress, the comforting flannel pillowcase practically dragging me into sleep. 

My eyelids fell, and there was darkness. I could feel my breath, the expansion of my lungs, and I could hear my heartbeat in the lonely loft. There was nothing alive but me in this one moment. There was nothing else in the entire world. Nothing to fill that echoing silence, the complete feeling of separation that comes with realizing that you aren't even close to being a member of the human race anymore. 

Just when despair seemed ready to flood the rest of me with its poison, the exhaustion took over and the dreams took me away. 

They started with the usual. The vague darkness, with haunting winds blowing around me, screeching in a language I didn't know. I could hear the accusations in them, yet couldn't understand them and was helpless to defend myself. I stood naked, alone, and in the swarming darkness. This was what I feared about the night. 

"Let... let me go," I whispered, trembling as the cold rammed through my bones. "There's no place like home, there's no place like home..." I was babbling, words only my dream-self understood. I was going to die here, among this nothingness. "Just... let me out. Out, out..." My mumurings twisted together, a strange sense of familiarity over the dream. Too many nights, too many nights, and even while in it I could recognize that I had done this before. 

That was when it all shifted, a slight dizziness coming over me. Something was different, something I hadn't experienced, and I could feel the planes around me, dying and warping to something else. 

"Mark." With that word, it all changed. The dream I had been having for a month vanished with the breathy, musical voice that I'd never expected to hear again. A part of me cried, a part of me longed for it, a part of me felt a surge of resentment. But the largest part of me sang with a happiness and shock that ran me over like a Toyota barreling down the highway. 

The darkness disappeared, and in my dreamworld I now stood upon the grass, sunlight streaming down and warming my skin, glinting off my glasses and nearly blinding me. The sharp winds died down to a comfortable breeze, tickling me and welcoming me. If my subconscious mind were like my conscious one, I would have been shocked, but in my dream, there was an almost sense of rightness about it. This was the moment I wanted, I waited for. Tears sprung to my eyes, and like there hadn't been a day between us, I ran across the shallow grass and the silent stones to embrace my friend. 

"Angel." The word came easily to my lips, bringing about an overflow of happiness that seemed alien coming from me. Happiness? I didn't think I would have that again. Yet here it was. 

I felt the familiar, gentle arms around me, holding me tight, and as I pulled back, those dark eyes were filled with the same passion that we saw in them every day. "Mark, honey, what brought you this far?" Angel's voice held a hushed concern, one that made my soul ache to cry out its sins. 

My gaze dropped to the ground, upon the tombstone with its worn inscription, proclaiming Angel's resting spot. "Everything," I murmured, my voice unwilling to compromise with my soul. "Nothing. I don't know." 

"You know what's wrong," he chided me, his finger gently touching the underside of my chin, lifting it and forcing me to face those expressive eyes. "You just don't want to say it. But you can, you always can here." 

I didn't want to say it. After all the struggle, after all the nights, to admit to it would be a defeat. Yet... I was here. Angel told me I could say it, so what would be so wrong about it? If there was nowhere, not even inside myself, that I could admit to it during the day, couldn't I take this one moment to scream it from the hills? 

A moment's pause. Then another. I gave in. "I miss him," I croaked. God, those words hurt. The admission was more painful than I thought. Every thread was attached to that statement, everything I wanted to deny. 

He traced his hand along my jaw, wrapping me once more in a comforting hug. "The world didn't end, Mark. It's okay to miss him. Frankly, you've been an utter fool about him." Cupping my face in his hands, my eyes couldn't leave his. There was a worry in them, a message hidden in their depths that I couldn't understand. "A complete fool. It's okay to love. It really is." 

"But..." A thousand arguments wanted to burst forth. 

"There is no 'but'. There's only now, only this." A new voice whispered into my ear, barely above a sweet purr. I whirled around, shock overwhelming me. 

She was just as beautiful as ever. Her dark eyes, her sweet and seductive smile, the playful hints among her expression... Every moment of loss, of happiness, of hope, of jealousy I had felt about this woman swarmed over me again. I was gasping, nearly drowning, yet she stood there like an otherwordly queen. "It's okay, Mark," she murmured to me, her words practically cradling me with their gentleness. 

It's okay. Not just the moment, or the fact that I miss Roger. It was okay, we were okay... My voice outran my brain again, and I was searching for comfirmation. I could hear the quaver in my voice. "You don't hate me because I... well... y'know." 

Her laugh rang loud and clear, through the empty hills and seeming strange in a place like this. God, Mimi. Her laugh was something I truly missed. "I don't mind. Forget regret. I had my time, Mark." Her fingers reached out, lightly brushing against my arm, as if testing for my reaction. Her lips quirked, and those eyes met mine, showing nothing but serenity. "It's yours, now. And his. You need to stop second-guessing, and he needs to stop feeling guilty. Maybe then you two could actually try happiness for a change." 

I couldn't help a sardonic grin. "It'd be nice." 

That laugh again. Her hand closed fully around my wrist, gently tugging me forward. "Mark," she said, her voice lowered to more serious tones. "There's so much inside you that's hurting itself. You don't need it." 

I paused, letting myself be led and not quite sure what was happening. "I don't understand." 

In that moment, I didn't need to. As we took a few steps forward across the dew-touched grass, she drew away from me, her gaze falling to a fresh engraving upon a fresh stone. My breath left me, and sinking to my knees, I could barely feel her hands upon my shoulders. 

"Roger..." Tears sprang to my eyes, unbidden, and I felt a slight shame in my gut. Here was I was, crying for a lover with his former lover behind me. But the words were too much for me. 

'Roger Davis - May a song guide him forever'. 

Roger. For a moment, my heart stopped, my breath caught in my throat, and I wanted to lay down and die, right there on his grave. The tears tugged at me, seeking release, and in that instant I realized that I was a fool. A fucking utter fool. I wasn't going to put off time by rotting in my apartment. It was pointless, I was pointless. Yet, this stone, this moment... This was what I was afraid of for so long? 

A shuddering breath escaped, and I felt a gentle arm around my shoulders as Angel stood at my left, and then Mimi reach over and take my hand from where she remained, on the other side of me. 

"He's not down there, baby," she murmured to me, her own voice hushed. We stared down for a moment, in our own silent reflections, before my gaze finally pried itself loose and slid over to watch her. She was looking at me, expectant of something. 

"It's not too late," I said, a half-statement, a half-question. 

"Not at all," Angel answered, his voice giving me the hope I'd longed for and nearly given up on. 

I nodded absently, feeling strangely light-headed. It could be okay. It wasn't too late, and this... My throat seemed raw from the choked back tears, but as I gazed down at the silent grave, I knew that even if it were destined, my answer hurt too much to live through. I would have my tears when the time came, but until then, I wanted to laugh again. Even once. 

Mimi's smile grew larger, I could feel it as she watched me. "Now," she said, her voice filled with mirth. "You two don't forget to have a little fun." With a suggestive wink, she turned away, and before I could blink, she and Angel were gone. I was alone. Again. 

Closing my eyes, I drew in all the strength I could, letting the winds wrap around me like a blanket. No matter what the future's holding, I had to try. I had to. 

With a jolt, I shot up in my bed. I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead, blurring my vision as it dripped into my eyes. Adjusting my glasses and praying they hadn't been bent in my sleep, I struggled off my bed and grabbed a shirt that was piled on the floor next to the bed. I barely spared a glance at the clock, noting that it was eight in the morning as I practically yanked on my pants and shoes and dashed out of the apartment. I didn't have a clear idea what I was doing, I just knew that I couldn't sit there, couldn't rest until I had found him. 

I don't think I was consciously aware of anything for the first ten minutes. All I knew was that I was walking, I was running, and next thing I knew I was sitting on a bus, my leg bouncing up and down and my fingers tapping against my knee as I prayed for it to hurry up, to go faster and get me there. I didn't care that the rain had soaked me, that my clothes were plastered to my body and the water was dripping down my face. Vision wasn't important. Something deeper than that was working, some primal instinct inside me that had been bred and strengthened through the generations of bisexual filmmakers that wanted to find their lovers... 

Okay, maybe that was going a little too far. But something inside of me was pressing me on, and that was good enough for me. As soon as the bus stopped, I knew it was where I needed to get off. Pushing to the front, I leapt onto the street, the rain beating down on me and muffling the sound of the bus as it drove off. I started walking as fast as I could, pratically jogging down the block. 

The cemetery. How fitting. As I gazed out into the small, patchy spot at the edge of the city, I felt a new tightness in my chest: worry. _What if he's going to reject me? What if they're wrong? What if... Aw, dammit. The 'what if's got me in trouble in the first place._ I was tired of hiding behind hte future, behind the 'maybe'. Exhaling heavily, I summoned my nerve and set off down the path, determined to get him back. Determined to find him. 

It didn't take long. Few people wanted to venture out into the darkness of the storm. That right was reserved for us stupid people, I suppose. 

He stood over the grave, staring down at it as the rain drenched him. He didn't even seem to notice it. A tiny little smile came to my lips, unbidden, as I noticed that an umbrella dangled from his arm, unopened. That's Roger for you. 

I didn't say a word as I approached, and it seemed that I didn't need to. I stood a few feet off, silently watching, and before I could speak up, his sharp eyes glanced up and met mine, lacking any sort of surprise. Lacking any emotion at all. Wordlessly, he opened the umbrella, and offered his arm out to me. It was absurd, so completely absurd. With an equally silent nod, I slipped my arm in his, and under the shelter of the umbrella, we walked back up the hill towards his car. Both of us looked like drowned rats. 

Every now and then, I'd look over at him. It was a sight I drank in, and it revived me more than I can describe. His solid jaw, the drops of water making trails down it, his strong profile, his drenched hair... My heart fluttered, and I suddenly felt more alive than I had since that wrenching day in July. 

He never looked at me, staring straight ahead the entire time. As we approached his car, he opened the door on the passenger side, looking at me expectantly. As our eyes met, my heart once more flip-flopped. I got in, and he went around to the other side, getting in and tossing the umbrella in the back. 

We sat in an awkward quietness, the sound of the rain hitting the roof not enough to ease the tension that stretched between us. 

What do I say to the lover I pushed away? To the best friend I ever had, who suddenly felt simultaneously like a stranger and a way home? My fingers twisted together nervously, and I just fidgeted. I knew I would have to initiated it, I just didn't know what to say. 

'You just don't want to say it. But you can, you always can here,' he had said. Maybe... maybe that was where I should start. 

I turned to look at him, feeling another stab of pain in my heart. It was time. "I missed you," I whispered, suddenly unsure. How stupid could I possibly sound? 

He still didn't look at me, instead staring out into the clouds and the rain. "Yeah," he said. Not helpful at all. 

"I mean," I stumbled over the words, not quite sure if what was coming out of my mouth was going to make any sense to him or to me, "I can't sleep, Rog. I can't do anything anymore. It hurts, and I didn't want to admit that it does, but it does. You were everything to me. The guy I loved, my friend... And I was stupid, Rog. I know I was. But I can't keep going alone. I... I can't do that again." For what seemed like the hundreth time, tears pricked my eyes. _God, I'm a wimp. _But I was tired of being alone, so many years of it had worn me down, worn me away completely. 

He didn't answer me for a moment, and for that long pause I was terrified that he'd never forgive me. I didn't want to lose the most important person in my life. Especially not because of one of those patented Mark errors. 

"I don't get it, Mark." His voice was soft, not quite cold, yet I couldn't identify the emotions running through it. Anger? Sorrow? Confusion? "Why'd you go? What was it that I couldn't do for you?" 

"It wasn't you. It wasn't!" I tried to keep down the hysterical note that was seeking to escape. "I just couldn't.... I couldn't take it. This. Us. Everything. I was... afraid." The admission slipped out before I could help it, but a part of me felt a little relief at finally saying it. I was scared. Plain and simple. Can't be any more than human, in the end. 

His eyes met mine, and deep inside them I could see what I was longing for. A spark burned, it blazed into me. My Roger. Mine. "With all the shithead stunts and bull-headed stuff you had to put up with getting me to accept there was an 'us' in the first place, you should have known I wasn't lying. I want to be there, I still care about you. I can't stop." And in Roger-talk, 'I still care about you', meant 'I love you, dork, and I will till the end of time.'. A simple 'I care' from Roger was more than all the poetry in the world. 

"*Always* be there?" The words rushed out from me before I could stop them, and at this point, I didn't care. Let it all come out, let it all die in the air. I didn't want the words inside me anymore. A faint touch of bitterness wound itself into my words as I felt his hand grasp mine, his thumb rubbing soothingly against my palm. "You can't promise me always." 

"I can." His eyes seized mine, and I felt his grip tighten on my hand. "We're forever. I may die," I winced at the words, and he didn't try to hide the harshness in his voice, "but we're forever. Don't you dare forget that, Mark, or I'll have to tie you up and kick your ass." 

"Oh really?" A little smile fluttered at my lips. Barely. "Is that supposed to be a threat?" Something about his words had lifted my soul. The tears still clung to my cheeks, mingling with the rain dripping from my hair, but something inside of me felt comforted. Forever. I liked that. 

His own hard expression relaxed, and even though there was still sadness in his eyes, he gave me a faint smile. "Didn't think you were into that." But the smiles slipped away into seriousness. "I mean it, Mark. You're important to me. Even if we aren't going to grow old together, I want to be with *you* for all the time I have left. Every second. Can you deal with that?" 

"Yeah," I nodded, looking down at our clasped hands. "I think I can." 

His hand leaving mine, he turned the key in the ignition, the car coming to life. As he pulled out of the small cemetery parking lot, I leaned my head against the window, letting a hand rest on Roger's thigh to reassure myself that he was there. 

I was tired of running. I was tired of being alone. And after today, somewhere inside my mind *knew* that even thirty, forty years from now, long after he'd left my side, I still wouldn't be alone. There was no alone now. There was me, there was him. Even if it would someday only be in memories, it was forever. He couldn't leave me. I'd rarely seen Roger express that kind of emotion, and to see it now... Our love went without a lot of words, but now I knew that everything I felt for him, every time my heart felt like it had been shredded during our time apart, he had felt the same way. 

Once upon a time, Roger would run off when things got tough. Now, I had taken my turn, and could only wonder why he had done it so often. There was nothing out there to run to. 

I could hear him humming under his breath. Probably composing something. That was my Rog. I knew there were still things to be said, to be discussed, even with our lack of words, yet now wasn't the time. Anything and everything could be worked out later, after we'd gone back home. To our home. 

After all, we had forever ahead of us.   
  


~Fin~ 


End file.
